The Murder on the Links Agatha Christie (inspirational books for students .txt) đ
- Author: Agatha Christie
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He paused and swallowed.
âYes?â
âI heard a terrible cry. It wasnât loudâ âa sort of choke and gaspâ âbut it frightened me. For a moment I stood rooted to the spot. Then I came round the corner of a bush. There was moonlight. I saw the grave, and a figure lying face downwards, with a dagger sticking in the back. And thenâ âand thenâ âI looked up and saw her. She was looking at me as though she saw a ghostâ âitâs what she must have thought me at firstâ âall expression seemed frozen out of her face by horror. And then she gave a cry, and turned and ran.â
He stopped, trying to master his emotion.
âAnd afterwards?â asked Poirot gently.
âI really donât know. I stayed there for a time, dazed. And then I realized Iâd better get away as fast as I could. It didnât occur to me that they would suspect me, but I was afraid of being called upon to give evidence against her. I walked to St. Beauvais as I told you, and got a car from there back to Cherbourg.â
A knock came at the door, and a page entered with a telegram which he delivered to Stonor. He tore it open. Then he got up from his seat.
âMrs. Renauld has regained consciousness,â he said.
âAh!â Poirot sprang to his feet. âLet us all go to Merlinville at once!â
A hurried departure was made forthwith. Stonor, at Jackâs instance, agreed to stay behind and do all that could be done for Bella Duveen. Poirot, Jack Renauld and I set off in the Renauld car.
The run took just over forty minutes. As we approached the doorway of the Villa Marguerite, Jack Renauld shot a questioning glance at Poirot.
âHow would it be if you went on firstâ âto break the news to my mother that I am freeâ ââ
âWhile you break it in person to Mademoiselle Marthe, eh?â finished Poirot, with a twinkle. âBut yes, by all means, I was about to propose such an arrangement myself.â
Jack Renauld did not wait for more. Stopping the car, he swung himself out, and ran up the path to the front door. We went on in the car to the Villa GeneviĂšve.
âPoirot,â I said, âdo you remember how we arrived here that first day? And were met by the news of M. Renauldâs murder?â
âAh! yes, truly. Not so long ago, either. But what a lot of things have happened since thenâ âespecially for you, mon ami!â
âPoirot, what have you done about finding Belâ âI mean Dulcie?â
âCalm yourself, Hastings. I arrange everything.â
âYouâre being a precious long time about it,â I grumbled.
Poirot changed the subject.
âThen the beginning, now the end,â he moralized, as we rang the bell. âAnd, considered as a case, the end is profoundly unsatisfactory.â
âYes, indeed,â I sighed.
âYou are regarding it from the sentimental standpoint, Hastings. That was not my meaning. We will hope that Mademoiselle Bella will be dealt with leniently, and after all Jack Renauld cannot marry both the girls. I spoke from a professional standpoint. This is not a crime well ordered and regular, such as a detective delights in. The mise-en-scĂšne designed by Georges Conneau, that indeed is perfect, but the dĂ©nouementâ âah, no! A man killed by accident in a girlâs fit of angerâ âah, indeed, what order or method is there in that?â
And in the midst of a fit of laughter on my part at Poirotâs peculiarities, the door was opened by Françoise.
Poirot explained that he must see Mrs. Renauld at once, and the old woman conducted him upstairs. I remained in the salon. It was some time before Poirot reappeared. He was looking unusually grave.
âVous voilĂ , Hastings! SacrĂ© tonnerre, but there are squalls ahead!â
âWhat do you mean?â I cried.
âI would hardly have credited it,â said Poirot thoughtfully, âbut women are very unexpected.â
âHere are Jack and Marthe Daubreuil,â I exclaimed, looking out of the window.
Poirot bounded out of the room, and met the young couple on the steps outside.
âDo not enter. It is better not. Your mother is very upset.â
âI know, I know,â said Jack Renauld. âI must go up to her at once.â
âBut no, I tell you. It is better not.â
âBut Marthe and Iâ ââ
âIn any case, do not take Mademoiselle with you. Mount, if you must, but you would be wise to be guided by me.â
A voice on the stairs behind made us all start.
âI thank you for your good offices, M. Poirot, but I will make my own wishes clear.â
We stared in astonishment. Descending the stairs, leaning upon LĂ©onieâs arm, was Mrs. Renauld, her head still bandaged. The French girl was weeping, and imploring her mistress to return to bed.
âMadame will kill herself. It is contrary to all the doctorâs orders!â
But Mrs. Renauld came on.
âMother,â cried Jack, starting forward. But with a gesture she drove him back.
âI am no mother of yours! You are no son of mine! From this day and hour I renounce you.â
âMother,â cried the lad, stupefied.
For a moment she seemed to waver, to falter before the anguish in his voice. Poirot made a mediating gesture, but instantly she regained command of herself.
âYour fatherâs blood is on your head. You are morally guilty of his death. You thwarted and defied him over this girl, and by your heartless treatment of another girl, you brought about his death. Go out from my house. Tomorrow I intend to take such steps as shall make it certain that you shall never touch a penny of his money. Make your way in the world as best you can with the help of the girl who is the daughter of your fatherâs bitterest enemy!â
And slowly, painfully, she retraced her way upstairs.
We were all dumbfoundedâ âtotally unprepared for such a demonstration. Jack Renauld, worn out with all he had already gone through, swayed and nearly fell. Poirot and I went quickly to his assistance.
âHe is overdone,â murmured Poirot to Marthe. âWhere can we take him?â
âBut home! To the Villa Marguerite. We will nurse him, my mother and I. My poor Jack!â
We got the lad to the
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